Stir-frying pork liver required generosity with oil. The wok was heated until scorching, then a stream of soybean oil was poured in. The intense heat quickly brought the cold oil to a smoky haze. Only then did Jian Jia slide the marinated pork liver into the wok, stir-frying until it changed color, each slice distinct and none sticking to the pan.
Jian Jia quickly plated the liver, exclaiming, “You really need a big iron wok to get the proper feel.” Back when she rented and cooked in smaller kitchens, she always felt something was missing. Poorly maintained cast iron pans could make even fried eggs stick, and while nonstick pans prevented food from clinging, they never seemed to reach the right temperature. It felt less like frying and more like slow cooking; true wok aroma always lacked in quick stir-frying.
A farmhouse’s large iron wok was entirely different. Once the fire in the hearth flared up, the entire circumference of the pan heated evenly. Its size meant that any ingredient could be tossed and stirred quickly without fear of spilling over.
The pale gray slices of pork liver, lightly coated in a slightly thickened sauce, curled slightly but remained perfectly intact as they stacked together. Hunter Qin was dumbfounded, holding his brush pen, eyes deep and incredulous: “It’s cooked already??”
He wasn’t unfamiliar with animal liver, but he’d never seen it cooked with just a brief toss in hot oil. Could it really be eaten like this?
Jian Jia smiled gently, glancing at Hunter Qin. “Almost done,” she said. Without onions or garlic sprouts, she used a few garlic cloves, and without fresh green or red peppers, she cut a few chili strips to garnish.
Leaving some oil in the pan, she pushed in the minced garlic. These were fresh cloves from the Qin family vegetable garden. For reasons unclear, either Hunter Qin’s lack of management or the variety—the cloves were tiny, the largest no bigger than the top of her little finger. Yet the flavor was rich; as soon as the garlic met the hot oil, a fragrant aroma wafted upward.
Once the edges of the garlic turned a light golden hue, Jian Jia added the pork liver and chili strips. With the garlic and peppers, the stir-fried liver gained color and complexity in aroma, each element accentuating the dish.
After a couple more turns in the pan, the stir-fried pork liver was ready. Jian Jia had cooked the entire batch at once, initially thinking a large coarse porcelain bowl would suffice, but she ended up needing a second smaller bowl to hold all of it.
The liver no longer carried the raw smell; only the mingling flavors of sauce and accompaniments remained. Twice-fried, it was crisp-tender, each bite full of delicate pork liver flavor. The garlicky sauce was balanced, neither too salty nor too sweet, while the chili added a gentle heat that teased the palate.
After tasting a piece herself, Jian Jia handed the chopsticks to Hunter Qin. “Try it,” she urged. Her stir-fried liver was one of her specialties, and with Hunter Qin’s knife skills, the dish was bound to impress the Qin family.
Hunter Qin looked at her, then at the chopsticks, his expression darkening slightly as he hesitated. Jian Jia chuckled at his caution. “Relax, I’ve already tasted it. It’s fully cooked and safe.”
It wasn’t surprising that Hunter Qin was wary. Locals often considered liver unclean, discarding it yet unable to waste it. They would braise it with other innards, simmering with spices for half an hour, after which they felt safe consuming it. Jian Jia had eaten such braised liver before—it became chewy and flavorful, a perfect cold dish with alcohol but she preferred the crisp-tender style.
Hunter Qin’s eyes flicked strangely at her before he picked up his chopsticks, plucking two slices and sending them into his mouth. The crisp, tender liver instantly conquered his taste buds. By the time he realized it, his chopsticks were raining slices back into his mouth.
Jian Jia’s eyes lit up, fingers rubbing together in anticipation. “How is it? Delicious?” she asked. It had to be—otherwise, Hunter Qin wouldn’t have eaten so many slices. It was a pity she lacked the right vegetables to fully enhance the dish’s flavor.
Hunter Qin set down his chopsticks, exhaling in satisfaction. “Delicious.” He intended to note the method; it was convenient, fast, and straightforward, easy enough to replicate.
Jian Jia smiled, pleased to have someone to share her love for liver. Finding someone with matching tastes was rare; everyone had their preferences. For instance, she disliked bitter melon, believing any dish with it absorbed its bitterness.
She soon realized that some avoided coriander, some celery, some offal, and some couldn’t touch ginger. Finding a compatible dining partner was difficult. Under the same roof, Jian Jia secretly wished that the Qin family could share her enjoyment.
Now it seemed that a family with aligned tastes was achievable. Jian Jia called out to Qin Lang, “Lang’er, come try the liver.”
The Qin brothers proved easy to please, especially Lang’er, likely having been influenced by his elder brother for so long. Whatever Jian Jia cooked, he eagerly ate. Clamping a piece in his mouth, he chewed with delight, exclaiming, “Sister, what kind of meat is this? So good!”
When he realized it was liver, he froze. He had never known liver could be crisp and tender, flavorful. Previously, he couldn’t bear the smell or texture. But Sister Jia’s pork liver? He could eat an entire bowl.
This meal was abundant: red-braised pork and stir-fried pork liver for protein, stir-fried oil scraps with pickled vegetables as the greens. Simple as the three dishes were, each was generous and delicious.
The red-braised pork and stir-fried liver were unquestionable hits. Surprisingly, the pickled greens with oil scraps were refreshing, prompting everyone to eat an extra bowl of rice.
A few days ago, Jian Jia had tended the Qin family’s vegetable garden. Aside from overripe or unworkable crops, everything else had been properly arranged. To simplify, Hunter Qin had grown many long-stemmed, broad-leafed greens—a variant of mustard greens. Stir-fried, they could be somewhat bitter, but they were prolific and widely cultivated locally.
While tending the garden, Jian Jia noticed the greens had begun flowering, golden blooms spreading atop the stalks. She removed old leaves and flower stems, drying most for preserved greens, while keeping some tender for pickling.
Her method, contributed by fans from her previous life, was simple and fast: blanch tender greens in boiling water briefly, cool them, then press them into an oil-free jar. She cooked a spoonful of flour into a paste, cooled it to slightly warm, then added it to the jar. After three to four days, the pickles were tangy and crisp.
The recent mild weather was ideal for fermentation. The pickled greens turned golden, with a gentle tang, and stir-frying them lightly with oil scraps and pork fat made them both crispy and aromatic—a perfect complement to rice. Eating a few bites with red-braised pork and liver, mixed with pickled greens, cleared the palate and stimulated the appetite.
At some point, the rain outside ceased. Dampness clung to the black eaves, while playful little sparrows hopped and chirped, their black beady eyes tracking the activity in the courtyard.
After eating, all but Hunter Qin went about their tasks. Qin Lang crouched by the well, rubbing loofah pulp to clean clay jars, the brown surfaces coated with glaze, not difficult to wash.
Second Uncle sprinkled coarse salt over the pork to be cured. The pieces had rested in the basin for some time, separated from the pig, their cuts still streaked with red. Large grains of salt mostly rolled to the basin bottom, some clinging to the meat.
Second Uncle cupped the salt in his hands, rubbing it into the pork. With each movement, the salt ground finer, ensuring every inch of meat absorbed the seasoning.
Summer wasn’t ideal for curing meat, so Second Uncle used more salt to prevent spoilage. Once the meat was well rubbed, he and Hunter Qin would carry it to a cave in the back hill. The cool cave would let the hams cure and dry, available for later use.
Jian Jia had wanted to help with the hams but feared her inexperience might hinder the process. Seeing Second Uncle manage with ease, she turned her attention to a wooden basin in front of her. It contained seven or eight palm-sized slabs of pork belly, leftover from the wild boar, which she planned to make into jarred pork for long-term storage.
Jian Jia recalled tasting jarred pork in her past life, leaving a deep impression: tender yet not greasy, soft but not falling apart. Curious, she had asked her roommate for the recipe.
The best cuts for jarred pork were from pork belly. The meat was first salted for a base flavor, washed, fried thoroughly, then pressed into jars, sealed with the frying oil.
The process seemed simple, but every step required care. For example, too much salt would make the meat overly salty; too little left it bland and less preservable. The ratio from the recipe she obtained was ten jin of meat to two liang of salt. After using some belly for lunch’s red-braised pork, thirty-five jin remained.
Before cooking the red-braised pork, she had already salted the meat. In winter, curing might take a full night; in summer, two hours sufficed. By now, the liquid in the meat had been drawn out, leaving the lean red meat slightly darker.
Jian Jia poked a slab, feeling the firm, cold texture under her fingertips. With the meat cured this way, it was ready to be washed.